Soldier of Fortune
by Jenova2008
Summary: Offdensen's past comes back to haunt him. Set after Season 3 premiere, spoilers for Season 3.
1. Present Day

_Author's Note: I don't own Metalocalypse. This story is rated M for pervasive swearing, some brutality and possible sexuality. Because, hey, it's Metalocalypse. _

Mordhaus: January, 2010

The elevator doors opened with a bell. The woman stepped out into a huge atrium lined with honey-colored marble, red leather chairs and tasteful ferns. The design aesthetic was different here from the blood red and black spires around most of the impressive fortress, Mordhaus. Etchings on the marble floor led the eye to a central feature, an elegant mahogany door sporting a golden plaque that merely read CFO.

"May I help you?" a voice asked. The visiting woman noticed a receptionist's desk off to the right of the elevator exit. The receptionist seemed to be an older, heavy-set woman in a peach pantsuit and what looked like a black hood over her head.

The visiting woman stared at the black hood for a moment, speechless, so the receptionist kindly probed, "Are you Dr. Parsons for 4 o'clock?"

"Yes," replied Dr. Parsons, snapping out of her stupor. She carried a laptop briefcase in her left hand.

"I will inform Mr. Offdensen of your arrival. One moment, please." She lifted the phone and dialed.

The elevator pinged again, and the doors slid open to reveal hulking man with long black hair and a blank look in his eyes. He took a moment to realize that he should disembark and stepped out. His gaze rested on Dr. Parsons.

"Uhhh...," he growled, crushing his black eyebrows together. "Who the hell are you?"

Dr. Parsons drew herself upright and remained silent, sending out a chilly aura. Nathan dropped his eyes to the floor with a growly sigh, impatiently waiting for the receptionist to finish her call. He checked out the strange woman's ass for a moment. Not bad. She looked about thirty five or forty, but was in pretty good shape. Her face was pale and drawn, and there was a permanent worry crease in her brow. She had ashy blonde hair tied in a low, messy bun. She wasn't ugly, but she was pretty boring looking. Nathan gave her an 8, though, because her tan suit with the knee-length skirt and those high heels gave off a sexy librarian vibe. Her dour, unsmiling face only added to that appeal.

"Yes, sir. I will. Thank you, sir." The receptionist hung up the phone. "Go on in, Dr. Parsons. Mr. Offdensen is expecting you. Lord Explosion, I am sorry, but Mr. Offdensen has requested not to be disturbed for the time being. I can summon your personal servants to assist you, if you like."

Nathan blinked. "No. Whatever, it's fine. It's not a fucking emergency or anything."

"Very well."

"Yeah, so I'm just gonna, like, ride this shit back down." He thumbed to the elevator.

"Very good, sire."

Nathan scowled once more at Dr. Parsons as the elevator doors closed over his face. She stared back, emotionless. Her severe face softened a bit when she thanked the receptionist for her time and headed into the CFO's office.

* * *

Charles pushed his glasses up his nose, trying not to fidget, as he tended to do when he felt like he didn't have control of a situation. He stood at the gigantic window behind his desk, glaring out into the sky, with his back to his guest. He held a glass of brandy in one hand and listened to Dr. Parsons quietly open her laptop briefcase and start setting it up on his desk.

She should know better, coming here. No one in Mordhaus knew anything about his life, and he wanted to make sure it stayed that way. Had anyone seen her come up to the office? Charles had been running through excuses for her presence here in his mind ever since she had contacted him for a meeting. His first instinct had been to refuse her, but when had she ever requested to meet him like this? Logically, he knew she had always respected the unspoken rules between the two of them, but his need to maintain control fueled a desire to punish her.

_Make her wait a little bit longer._

It did not seem to bother Dr. Parsons at all. She patiently indulged Charles as she logged onto her computer and click-clacked away on the keyboard. She had known him long enough to know what was going on.

Finally, he turned to face the blonde woman, as though he had just noticed her. "Grace," he said, struggling to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "You do realize it's exceedingly dangerous for you to, uh, come here, right?"

She glanced up from her computer, unfazed, and kept typing. "Hang on. I'm checking my email. I got bored waiting." Her voice was dry and level.

"What do you want?" he asked in a clipped voice.

"Jessup is dead," she said plainly, as though she had just told him the sky was blue. Then to herself she muttered, "There we go. Damn spam filters."

Charles cleared his throat. "Huh. When?"

Grace's brow furrowed. "There's something you should see. I have it here." She indicated for him to come around to see the screen. Reluctantly, he obliged, walking to the other side of his desk.

"We found him Saturday," Grace continued, "about three miles from his house. There was evidence of a massive struggle. Blood everywhere. His body had been mutilated and decapitated. Looks like whoever did it had a hard time killing him." A hint of pleasure tinged her voice.

"Of course," murmured Charles. He leaned in close to her as he read the screen. She stared coolly at the side of his face as he realized their close proximity. Their eyes met for a brief second and she raised an eyebrow. Annoyed at her coy attitude, he leaned ever so slightly away from her and peered at the screen through his glasses. There was an anonymous email addressed to "Eric Jessup":

_I know who you are. I know who you all are. I will hunt you down like the rats you are until your guts are splattered over the streets. I am coming to kill you just like I killed that fucking rat bastard CFO. I enjoyed breaking his fucking face and tasting his blood on my fists. I am coming for you._

Charles snapped upright. He swallowed hard, but otherwise his expression remained stoic.

"He had been getting vague, threatening emails for two weeks. He told none of us about them. But this final one, well, it mentions you. We're pretty sure, anyway." Grace frowned, carefully raising her eyes to Charles to gauge his reaction.

"Yes. I know who this is." Charles had circled back around his desk and sat heavily in his chair. They now faced each other across the desk. He took a long sip of brandy.

"So this is the guy who…" She trailed off. "I didn't want to come here like this, but I had no choice. I'm sorry, Charles."

"Are you sure," he said, lowering his voice a bit, "that Jessup's dead? He's one of us, and, uh, we don't die that easily."

Grace managed a small smile. "No, we don't, do we?"

"I fail to see what's funny about it."

"No, it's not—never mind." She bit her lip and banished her mirth. "Anyway, yeah, he's pretty dead. He was decapitated. I mean, Jesus. Even we can't survive that."

"Did you see the body?"

Grace let out a little laugh. "Always suspect the conspiracy, don't you?"

"You're, uh, talking to a guy who faked his own death."

"Like hell you did. You're so full of shit, Charles. Always think you're in such control. It was only because you were in one piece and we got to you in time. I got to you in time." She crossed her arms.

Charles stared impassively at her, raising one eyebrow. "Well. At any rate, my would-be murderer is targeting all of you now." His face softened a bit. "Have, uh, you received any of these messages?"

"No," she replied quietly. "I also think you should know that there's been talk…about you. Mainly Dean. He's been rallying against you, saying you've leaked our secrets and put us all in danger."

"I'm not surprised. Dean's been looking for a way to take me down for over 20 years." He poured himself another glass of brandy and offered the doctor some as well. She accepted with a nod of the head.

"It gets worse, though," said Grace. "He's talking about revealing that you're alive to the public. Thinks if the murderer gets wind of it, he'll resume chasing you and leave us alone."

Charles shook his head and sighed. "If we –all of us- plan an assault against this guy, I'm sure we can eliminate him. Leave it to Dean to take the cowardly way out while throwing me under the bus. Just proof that he's more interested in settling the old score between us than actually protecting the organization."

Grace smirked and tapped his brandy glass with her own. "My thoughts exactly. I mean, that was the promise we had made all those years ago, right? That we'd always look out for each other? Us against the world, and all that?"

"That's correct."

* * *

Meanwhile, down in the game room, Nathan Explosion sauntered in to find Pickles in the hot tub, surrounded by empty bottles. His red dreadlocks floated in the water, and he whined a drawling song to himself through a lopsided grin. Skwisgaar sat in the bubbling hot water as well, far from his drunken band mate, furiously fingering his guitar and glaring sideways at Pickles like an aggravated cat.

"Seriouskly, you ams littersing the water, some peoples is trying to enjoy a nice hot soaks."

Behind them, Toki let out a childish cry of happiness. "I get top scores! Hey, Natans, checks dis out!" Toki had been playing Dance Dance Revolution like a fiend lately. Truthfully, he was the only one of them in good enough shape to excel at it.

"Yeah, that's great. Hey, listen, you guys," rumbled Nathan, staring at the floor. "I just saw some strange business chick go up to his office. For a meeting. A chick…in his office." Seldom did any member of Dethklok refer to Charles by his name, but there was only one guy in Mordhaus with an 'office'.

Murderface had been lounging on the sofa in the back, his boots up on a black leather ottoman. He held a small, dark red, velour notebook and pen. "Scho what? What're you, jealousch, you gay piece of shit?"

Nathan scowled. "Are you…writing in a journal right now?"

"I need to exchpress my thoughtsch! I'm a deep individual. But none of you fuckersch would know that." He kicked the ottoman with a growl of rage. Then, he cast a withering look at Nathan and started to write in the book. "'Today, Nathan wasch a dick! He'sch alwaysch a dick because he'sch a motherfucking cockschucker! And, he'sch a fag! He _isch_ a dick, therefore he _lovesch_ a dick.' Ah, that'sch a good one."

"Dood! You guys!" Pickles exclaimed, "Maybe she's a booty call, yanno? Heh heh, can you imagine Affdensen wit a woman?"

"Ja," Skwisgaar chuckled through a sneer, "he's is probably havings her signs the waivers, because he is bad in beds. Does not gives her the, the organasms."

"Gahd, dat is sooo feckin' funny!" Pickles finished the bottle of vodka he was holding and grabbed a nearby bong, pulling it closer. "He prob-prob'ly keeps 'is socks on!"

"It's like when you're a kid," said Nathan, "and you, like, see your teacher at the grocery store. Or taking a piss, or fucking, they don't do that!" His green eyes bugged out at the thought.

"Dids, ah, yous ever see your teachers fucking, Natans?" Toki asked in a low, serious voice.

"No, what I'm saying is, it would be weird."

"I fucks my teachers, back in Sweden," said Skwisgaar offhandedly. "Must haves had, maybe likes a hundred of dems."

Toki jutted out his chin petulantly. "You did not has a hundred teachers, Skwisgaar. No ones has a hundred teachers! What, you go to schools for a million billions years?"

"Sure, Tokis, whatever you say," Skwisgaar replied in his most condescending voice.

As the two guitarists started arguing, Nathan delved into his own thoughts. Things had been a little unusual since Offdensen's return. After their biggest, most expensive concert ever, the boys had partied like never before. Offdensen had joined them, and after many drinks, each member of Dethklok had had his turn to express his happiness at the manager's return. They laughed, toasted, and the evening ended up with everyone except Charles passed out. The whole affair had been relatively drama-free. Nathan had felt like maybe he should be angry with Charles, but when it came down to it he couldn't bring himself to feel anything other than monumental relief. Now, maybe things would get back to fucking normal around here.

Only, things hadn't. On the surface, yes, it was almost like the last nine months never happened. The guys still got their crazy, drunken ideas and Charles still tried to talk them out of them. There had been some concerts in the meantime, with things running like usual. The klokateers all came back to work with renewed vigor, having tasted life without their lords Dethklok and found it lacking. And Charles had made sure to make Mordhaus renovations his priority, and repairs were finally completed in record time. But the manager himself had changed, becoming more reserved than he had been before, if that was even possible. More reclusive. And, Nathan couldn't help but intuit, pissed off.

Charles was angry. In true Offdensen fashion, it was not an explosive, expressive anger, but more a cold rage that roiled below his calm exterior. Nathan was pretty sure the anger was not due to Dethklok, but he wished he knew more about what the hell had happened to the manager these nine months. Charles had made it very clear, however, that the subject was not open to discussion at this time.

The strange woman and the secret meeting troubled Nathan greatly. Charles had an open door policy. No matter how loud or drunk or stupid his boys got, any one of them could always see him, whenever they wanted. And, now, he tells his secretary to turn the band away? Also, for as long as Charles had been working for Dethklok, he had never conducted business meetings of any kind at Mordhaus. Nathan knew Charles had business meetings to attend and lawyer shit to deal with, of course, and candy-ass douche bags with whom he golfed, but it was always off Mordhaus grounds.

Nathan remembered about five years ago, he had asked Charles why he never invited any of his "business jack-off friends" to Mordhaus, and he hadn't thought about Charles's answer until now.

"_Well, Nathan, when I'm here, I am 100% focused on Dethklok. I like to keep Dethklok separate from my other dealings." _

Most alarmingly, Offdensen had not yet revealed to the world that he is alive. He had been back for two months now, discreetly managing behind the scenes. It struck Nathan as very weird. Keeping the fact that he was alive a secret was the last barrier to things returning completely to normal, and Charles was refusing to do it. Something was definitely different, and it was driving the lead singer insane.

Nathan hated being so fucking empathetic. It was definitely not metal. He wished he could be oblivious like the other guys.

The front man surfaced from his thoughts just in time to catch a debate about whether Offdensen was a virgin, and bets being placed on the answer. Unfortunately, this was also the time the manager walked into the game room. Conversation halted abruptly, with Pickles stifling drunken laughter.

"So, uh…what're you guys talkin' about?" asked Charles, in that too-casual way he often did when he knew more than he was letting on.

Nathan was about to say "nothing", when Pickles blurted out, "Ay, we got a bet! Toki ov'r there says yer a virgin. Are ya a virgin?"

Charles's mouth fell open a bit. "Excuse me?"

Toki turned bright red. "Pickle you asshole! Pins the blames only ons me, but Skwisgaar said it too!"

The handsome blond rolled his eyes. "Yowza."

"Weel, I tink you aren't, yanno? I'm on yer side, Affdensen. But seriously, I do have twen'y bucks ridin' on it, so come on."

"I don't think this is a productive area of discussion"- Charles began, until he was interrupted by Murderface.

"Juscht answer the question, numbnuts. I wanna win twenty dollars and buy a Crisco handjob from your mom."

Charles closed his eyes, summoning his patience. "I may not, uh, get around as much as you boys, but I am forty four years old. I've been around the block more than once."

The band fell silent, and Charles swore he could hear the gears in their heads turning, trying to glean the meaning of his words. At length, Pickles said, "Sooo, that's a….no?"

"That's right, Pickles. No. I am not a…virgin."

Mixed cheers and disappointed groans erupted from the band as half of them rifled through pockets and fished for wadded up cash, grudgingly thrown at the winners. Charles didn't even want to see who had lost that bet and pretended to study the wall.

"So, uh, guys. Meeting time, let's go. We have to discuss insurance renewals"-

"Ugh! This is bullshit!" Nathan hollered. His band mates agreed loudly, in unison, and all began to assault Charles with arguments as to why they shouldn't attend the meeting.

Charles worked his usual magic with the guys, appearing on the surface to bow to their demands, while in reality, they did exactly as he wanted in the end. Slowly, they began to migrate to the conference room, still arguing along the way.

"This is dildos!" Skwisgaar spat. He and Toki lead the crew, followed closely by Pickles and Murderface. Their rants echoed down the hallway.

Charles lingered behind, walking slowly and making sure the band made it to their destination. He noticed that Nathan was trying to hang back with him. The gigantic man hemmed and hawed, glancing sideways at Charles and making little growls under his breath.

Charles tilted his head to the side. "Is there a problem, Nathan?"

"Where's that chick?" he blurted accusingly.

"Uh, 'chick'?"

"Don't play dumb, that chick I saw go up to your office this afternoon."

"Oh. You, uh, saw her, did you?" The manager looked puzzled. "She left. Are you upset or something?"

Nathan set his jaw in a grim frown and folded his arms across his chest. Charles was inwardly amused; Nathan was so often like a little boy who had been denied his favorite dessert.

"You had Debbie turn me away," fumed Nathan. "I mean, what the hell? Private secrets and shit? You never did that _before_."

Charles knew the emphasis on that last word referred to the time before he had "died". Emotional comfort had never been something he was good at, but even he had sensed the tension from Nathan. Charles knew it was his fault, but he just wasn't prepared to let Dethklok into this area of his life. He wished the guys, and especially Nathan, wouldn't take it so personally.

"Rest assured, Nathan, it's really nothing you need to be concerned with. If it helps, the next time I have a meeting like that I'll be sure to inform you all well ahead of time. Okay?" Charles looked over at Nathan's grim profile. "Was there some reason you, uh, needed to see me?"

Nathan sighed. "No. It was just an idea I had about the next concert. Whatever, it's not the end of the world. So who the hell is she, anyway?"

Charles rolled his eyes slightly. Why was Nathan so stuck on this? He thought about dodging the question, but Nathan would only get pissed off and keep pestering him. So he answered vaguely, "She's an associate."

Nathan started to feel angry. Damn Charles, he never did give straight answers. But before he could further pry, they arrived at the conference room and had their meeting. The meeting had taken over an hour and was filled with the usual tangents. Charles had used the opportunity to excuse himself quietly in the end and retire to his room for the night. Nathan made a mental note to continue the conversation later. There was no way in hell he'd let Offdensen squirm out of this one. He didn't really give a shit about that woman, but he had a feeling that the more he learned about her, the more he would learn about those nine, mysterious months.

* * *

In the sanctuary of his living quarters, Charles cupped his third goblet of brandy he'd had tonight. His head swam a bit; he felt pleasantly buzzed. He had been hitting the brandy more often lately, and more often to the point of drunkenness. He wasn't proud of it, but nor did he care much to stop.

He took a quick peek at the clock: 12:37 AM. The guys would be up for a few hours more, easily. They were night owls who loved to party all night and sleep all day. But Charles normally went to bed before 11 PM most nights, and he usually awoke at 4:30 AM for his morning workout routine. He had always been the type to not require lots of sleep. On nights like tonight, marred by insomnia, his well-trained body would still get him up early, despite fatigue. Luckily, he never experienced hangovers.

Slightly wobbly, he walked to a plush recliner and sat. A stack of papers sat piled on the floor at the foot of the chair. Charles had pulled them from a hidden safe he had behind a lovely framed copy of _La tour Eiffel peinte par Henri Rousseau _he had hanging on the posh mahogany-accented walls. Obsessively, he had leafed through them several times already, putting them down and picking them back up. He took them in his hands once more, along with a swig of brandy. The yellowed newspaper fragments felt brittle between his fingers, making him feel just as old and brittle and liable to crumble at any moment. Several headlines stood out from the rest.

_Largest Crime Syndicate in History Taken Down; Rescued Child Soldiers Dubbed the Detroit 12; US Army Remains Mum About Future of Detroit 12_

They were dated between 1979 and 1980. There were other, unrelated articles, along with pictures, one of which showed an unsmiling, mousy teenage boy with glasses flanked by some friends: a big, yellow-haired, ruddy-faced boy with a crew cut; a lanky, blonde, pale-faced girl; an olive-skinned boy with a toothy grin and dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail.

Damn it all, he thought. Seeing Grace today caused all sorts of unpleasant emotions to surface. Over the years, he had maintained a nice, clean divide between Dethklok and his life before. It seemed forces outside his control were bringing the two worlds together.

Charles's eyes settled on the dark-haired boy, his lifeless smile frozen in time forever. He lifted his glass in a silent toast and downed its contents in one burning swallow.

"Rest in peace, Eric."


	2. A Choice Made

_Author's Note: I don't own Metalocalypse. I hope everyone enjoyed the Christmas episode Sunday night. Please read and review if you like, I welcome all comments. This chapter has quite a bit of violence, so the squeamish among you be warned._

Detroit, Michigan: 1979

_A crowded city street, a parade. Throngs of onlookers smile and cheer, lost in their happy celebration. A silent stalker weaves in and out of bodies, like a wisp of smoke. A cavalcade rounds a street corner. Flurries of confetti dance on the chilly April breeze as children scramble to catch them in their gloved hands. The stalker seeks higher ground, melding into the background, remembered by none. Only the juvenile curve of his face, framed by a few strands of long, dark brown hair, peeks out beneath the hood of his brown jacket._

_A limousine bearing a dignitary heads the procession. The white-haired man in a suit smiles a pasted-on smile, waving apathetically to his cheerful crowd. Behind him, a military band blares out their brassy dedication. To his side stands a prim woman in a violet Chanel dress, perhaps his wife, politely beaming into space. Two black-clad guards stand on either side of the couple. _

_Crouching, the youth in the brown jacket assembles a rifle. He secures a spot on the nearby roof of a bakery. He takes just a moment to line his victim up in the crosshairs of his sight before pulling the trigger. _

_The man on the limo reels backward, spraying his wife with blood and bits of skull. She is perplexed, splattered with gore, mouth still stuck in a smile. People are still cheering. This is the moment before horror dawns. The boy on the roof rises to watch the chaos unfold. He knows what comes next. Terrified screams start, like a growing wave, and crescendo into a panic. People scatter. The victim's guards spot him and give chase, pulling their guns. The boy runs down a nearby fire escape and waits until he hears the voices of the men approaching. _

_All is going according to plan. The boy leads them through alleyways and keeps just the right distance ahead of them. _

_The men get on their radios, barking for backup. They lose the perpetrator between two buildings but are confident they can catch up soon. Suddenly, another shot rings out like a thunderclap. As the men run around the dumpster in the back, they see the corpse slumped against the filthy brick wall. It's the young man in the brown jacket. The top of his head is blown off, the rifle still clutched in his lifeless hand. The men glance at each other, slowly lowering their weapons, as their adrenaline rush subsides. _

_Police would later rule it as an assassination/suicide. _

_About a quarter mile away, a teenage boy with long brown hair ties it back into a ponytail. The distant klaxons of police and ambulances echo in the distance. He smiles a toothy grin, adjusting a blue baseball cap, and vanishes into obscurity. _

* * *

_Across town, a girl leads a man into a seedy motel room. She is tall and skinny, wearing a white polo shirt and orange tennis shorts. Her dull blonde hair is feathered prettily around her pale face. This man has to at least be twice her age, as she looks no more than 14 years old. He is hairy and stinks of cologne masking cigarettes. He makes some perverted comments about her body and about "his boys' good taste". His words are lost on her as she allows the haze in her brain to envelope her. The large, loud man grabs her hips, thrusts her towards his putrid mouth, and demands she service him. She acts demure with a rehearsed smile and manages to duck out of his grasp. Her body slinks to the bed and poses provocatively, but her eyes remain dead and expressionless; her lips slack and parted._

_The man hesitates for a split second at her expression, but his baser instincts take over. He runs towards her, hands outstretched in lust. He doesn't get very close before, lightning fast, he sees the sheen of a blade strike at his face._

_He makes a terrible gurgling and blood gushes out of his ruined throat, but this man is a fighter, and lashes out at his attacker. The girl nimbly escapes his clawing hand, jumping over him off the bed with the grace of a cat, landing right behind him. As he whirls to face her, she stabs him a few more times at seemingly superhuman speed, always remaining just out of his reach, like a swarm of stinging wasps. The world is moving in slow motion to him now as he falls, convulsing, to the floor, blood pooling everywhere. _

_As the world closes in around him for the last time, he sees her loom over him. If she had been staring at him with hatred, or satisfaction, or sick pleasure -anything- it might have been bearable. She regards her kill with little more emotion than is reserved for a piece of lint on her shirt. His last sight on Earth is those inhuman brown eyes: the eyes of a monster on a pretty teenage girl._

* * *

_A group of rough-looking men, numbering about 20, meet in an abandoned airplane hangar to discuss business. Somewhere between the bottles of tequila and lines of coke, tempers flare and a fight breaks out. None of the men see the boy enter the hangar, walking toward them with a steady, determined gait. He nears the group, silent and confident, and stops, standing there until one of the men notice him. _

_The boy is small for his age, smothered in an olive green jacket far too big for him. He has shaggy, light brown hair and wears coke-bottle glasses, looking more suited to a junior high science fair than a dirty, lakeside hangar filled with criminals. The men sneer derisively and threaten to "kick his ass" if he doesn't get lost. They get up from their seats to form a wall of malice, hoping to make the squirt piss himself in fear. The boy, however, just stares boldly at them, unflinching. _

_Suddenly, two shots fell two of the thugs with pinpoint accuracy. The boy draws his gun so fast that nobody sees the weapon. The men scream in outrage and rush the boy, but he is already moving, running in circles, so swift that he is a green blur. _

_One man's face explodes in a shower of teeth, blood and bone. Another's arm flies off, then his gut rips open and he topples to the ground before he can even realize what has happened. The angry cries quickly turn to terror as each man is picked off like a prey animal. Tirelessly, the boy darts to and fro until the job is finished and all the men are dead. _

_The hangar is strewn with mutilated corpses as the metallic smell of blood fills the hangar. As calmly as he entered, the boy leaves. _

* * *

An earsplitting buzzer sounded as the heavy, iron doors unlocked and slid open. The boy with the glasses and the green jacket sat in the darkness of the tiny cell, back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest. Vents lined the walls of the cell, and a purplish-grey mist began to seep out of the grating until the air was thick with the sickly-smelling gas.

"Come on, you little pricks! On your feet!" A voice from the hall roared. "Out! Out! Line up!"

There was only dim light here in the underground were they lived, from some nebulous source in the upper levels. The boy was used to the dark. He rose to his feet in the haze and stepped out through the prison doors into a huge, open corridor lined with cells similar to his own. The faint yellow light from above added a glow to the outlines of the figures emerging from their prisons. Kids like him had started lining up, one line on either side, silent and staring. They seemed to move like puppets, obeying the harsh commands of their masters who screamed at them from the blackness. The boy could never make out their tormentors' features in the dank of this dungeon, nor those of his cellmates, but he could clearly discern the shapes of the large guns they carried, ready to fire lead into any who stepped out of line.

The boy's mind felt sluggish. As his feet moved independently from his will, he struggled to gain control of his thoughts, which were fast disappearing into the usual vortex of blank submission caused by the constant gassing. How long had he been here? As long as he could remember, he thought. How old was he? He couldn't be sure. Days and years blended together.

"Number 22! Number 13! Number 27! Step forward!" The masters called.

The boy's eyes remained fixed straight ahead. His number was 29. He wouldn't be chosen today.

"The rest of you, report to the lower levels!" snarled the voice.

Bodies lurched forward, filing in a single line. The boy's feet moved him forward, too, despite his Herculean effort to the contrary. The lower levels were a place of pain and torture. He decided the best thing to do was to succumb to the gas-induced stupor so that the pain would pass, unknown.

* * *

One day, the boy huddled in his cell, enjoying one of his brief periods of lucidity. It was a tiny place, containing a dirty cot, and open shower that only ran cold water, and a steel toilet bowl with no lid, seat or tissue paper. Not a lot of room to stretch the legs. He liked to sit in a particular corner and fiddle with the end of a pipe that stuck out of the wall about six inches above the ground. He was twisting it, in an obsessive soothing motion, rocking back and forth ever so slightly.

Suddenly, the end popped off. He examined it in the dim light. A cool breeze started to seep out of the open pipe. He stuck his finger inside curiously, enjoying the sensation of the chilly air within, and tapping the inside of the pipe with his fingernail. After doing this for a minute or two, he began to hear something: a soft tapping from within the wall.

Someone was on the other end of the pipe.

Though they must be separated by only a couple of feet, they each knew not to talk in this place. These kids were trained to never say a word, lest they risk a harsh beating. The taps continued, excitedly.

The boy smiled for the first time in as long as he could remember.

* * *

A few days later, he had managed to get a hold of some paper and a pencil on one of his trips to the surface. Fervently, he scrawled a tiny note as best he could in the poor light. Folding it into a little paper football, he flicked it down the pipe and waited. The note said:

_You there?_

A long time passed. No note came back to him. He sighed quietly. Tiredness crept over him and he crawled onto his cot, took off his thick glasses, and fell asleep.

A while later, he awoke to a pinging noise down in his favorite corner. He put on his glasses and jumped off his bed onto the floor, feeling frantically for anything out of place. At last, there it was: a little white ball of paper. He unraveled it and held it close to his face.

_Didn't have pencil._

So began the correspondence between the boy and the mystery kid on the other side of the cell wall.

* * *

Some time later, in a secure federal building outside of Detroit, a Lieutenant Colonel of the United States Army headed down the hall to a very important conference, heart racing in anticipation. Finally, in two days, their plans would be realized. All the waiting, the planning, the watching would come to fruition. All the double agents who had given their lives to infiltrate the enemy would finally gain meaning to their deaths. It had been a grueling year, and the officer was ready to see it over and done with forever.

He entered the small auditorium to find the important players in their sting operation waiting for orders. There were other soldiers like himself, and also Michigan State police and federal investigators. Silence and anticipation saturated the atmosphere as the Lieutenant Colonel took the podium and lit a cigarette.

"Gentlemen," he began, "the time has come. All units are ready to strike in 48 hours. We'll move in at 16:00 hours, as that is when our operatives report a most likely drop in activity. We have linked the masterminds of this slavery ring to a massive, underground crime syndicate that runs Detroit. Our orders are to cripple this organization with deadly force. Shoot to kill, gentlemen. We aren't interested in keeping any of these scumbags alive." He took a long drag of his cigarette. "However, this is also a rescue mission. The slaves are brainwashed kids, but they are extremely dangerous. I cannot stress this enough, do not underestimate them. That being said, your orders are to subdue with non-lethal force if possible. You are authorized to use deadly force in self-defense only. Any questions?" The stern lines in his thick, round face seemed to betray his words. This was not a man to question.

The men's features set in determination. No more hesitations, no more delays, no more briefings. The players were in position.

* * *

It was ingenious, really. It had been the glasses-wearing boy's idea, to smuggle scraps of cloth into his cell and start plugging up the gas vents with them. Giddy with newfound energy born from emerging out of his years-long mental fog, he worked to tear the cloth into scraps. Slowly and quietly as he could, and then fed the bits through the slit openings, as he had been doing every night for two weeks. He had to work quickly, or risk being discovered. His friend through the wall was doing the same thing at his direction. They had formed a bond during their brief friendship and had scribbled plans for freedom to each other through their open pipe in the wall.

Something else amazing was happening. He was beginning to have longer periods of awareness. Most likely, it had been his project of blocking the vents in his room. The gas was starting to lose its efficacy. The sweet feeling of autonomy and individuality overwhelmed him. For the first time in his life, he had control of his thoughts, his movements. He could plan for his future. And the boy definitely had a plan.

A tiny, white object shot out of the pipe. He carefully unfurled the wadded note. It said _Three More._

He gazed at the pipe opening. Their resistance was spreading. Soon, he and all of his brethren would be freed, and their tormentors would be severely punished. The boy's mouth twisted into a smirk and his eyes glinted with pleasure at the thought.

* * *

Sometimes things don't go according to plan, but life can have a way of working itself out. It must have been after midnight when the boy toppled out of his bed, shaken by a massive rumbling. He flailed around, half asleep, his glasses temporarily flung out of reach. What was this, an earthquake? Another tremor shook the dungeon as his hands landed on his glasses. He realized the noise had been coming not from the earth below, but from above. Other distinct sounds carried down: the cries of battle punctuated by gunfire.

They were under attack! His sight restored, he examined the outside corridor and did not see the usual shadows of the armed guards.

Chunks of rock crashed down from the ceiling in the room outside his cell. It sounded as though bombs were going off in the distance and he knew that, sooner or later, this place was in danger of collapsing. Fear crept up inside him; an emotion he hadn't felt for a long time. Smoke began to pour into the dungeon. The boy held his sleeve in front of his face and grasped a bar of his cage with his other hand, rattling it violently with desperation.

Just then, the familiar buzzer sounded, and as if by a miracle, his doors creaked open. Cautiously, he inched his head out, looking up for falling debris. He decided to seize the opportunity when he perceived a brief lull in the bombing and step out to scout for an escape.

He saw that other random cells along the wall were wide open as well. Some other kids gathered near him, silent and waiting. He noticed that out of the 30-odd cells, only about a dozen had opened. The rest of the kids were trapped. He forced the thought out of his mind. He had worked too hard to throw away his chance at escape.

The flickering, orange light of a spreading fire above illuminated the smoky prison. More sand and rock rained down across the room, spurring on the urgency of the situation.

His eyes widened a little with surprise. He saw his friend in the wall, and she was not what he expected. The firelight showed him her face for the first time. She stood at least five inches taller than him, skinny as a pole. She had blonde hair and her lips were pressed in a tight, frowning line. He thought he saw surprise flash over her eyes, too, but the moment lasted only half a second. A few others appeared at her side: an auburn-haired girl, a boy with a dark brown ponytail, a red-faced, tow-headed boy. She looked at each of them, and then nodded slightly to the boy.

None of the kids had said a word the entire time, seeming to communicate telepathically. They knew there was a stairwell in the back that led to the upper level, though it was uncertain what they'd find there. The boy with glasses, the smallest of all of them, took up the lead and headed toward possible freedom or death.

* * *

"Sir!" A young soldier ran up to his superior officer, gasping for breath in the smoke-laden war zone. "We have spotted what looks like some of those kids making their way up to the roof! They disarmed and killed several of our soldiers and some of the enemies! It was incredible, sir! Recommended course of action?"

"How many of them?"

"A small group, sir! About ten!"

The Lieutenant Colonel gritted his teeth and hunkered down in a momentarily safe area as the battled raged around him. Bloody cuts peppered his face. "Damn it! What's the report from Squadron D?"

"The lower levels are all caved in, sir!" the soldier shouted over the din. "We can't get down there!"

This was a disaster. Not only were they suffering heavy casualties, but now most of the hostages had been killed. Luckily, the enemy had also sustained significant casualties. But, if they failed to rescue any of those kids, the mission would be deemed a failure.

"Should we organize a Squadron to subdue the hostages, sir?" the soldier's voice cut through his thoughts.

"No! You and your team, cover me! I'm going after them myself." He dropped his machine gun, bullets and grenades, and took only a revolver.

The soldier looked at him like he was crazy, but obeyed his superior officer.

* * *

It had been an arduous journey, not because of difficulty, but because of the slow pace kept to avoid drawing attention to their escape. The boy led his group under billows of smoke, ducking between fallen walls. Their trip up the back stairwell had yielded an unexpected bonus: a dead body, still armed. The boy took the gun from the corpse. When they reached the top of the stairwell, they would be in the middle of ground zero. From there, they would make their way to the roof. On the roof, they would have a vantage point. Soon, this would all be behind them.

Once, the boy had fantasized about tormenting his old masters who had so cruelly imprisoned them, but now the only thought in his mind was getting the hell out of there.

It was eerily quiet as he led his crew through some double doors on the uppermost floor. The building groaned; its integrity had been severely compromised. It was a gigantic, multi-level warehouse, and the kids headed away from the heat of the battle. The boy hoped the place wouldn't fall down around them, but strolling out at ground level was apt to be extremely unsafe.

They found a ladder leading up to a trapdoor in the ceiling. He went first, pushing the door with his head after unlatching it, gun at the ready. Sounds rushed into the open door, the commotion of helicopters, sirens, yelling and marching feet outside.

He knelt close to the ground as he emerged, his heart sinking. It was still pitch black outside. Harsh lights from helicopters and military vehicles made it impossible to survey the layout of the ground below. His companions started to file up from the room below. To avoid being shot, they all sat with their backs to the wall, facing the trapdoor they had come up through. Lights swept the rooftop, the group just out of their view.

The boy clenched his fist. What now? A few of them were armed, but they were clearly outmatched. As he pondered their predicament, the trapdoor flung open.

A barrel-chested man in a uniform climbed out, alone.

The boy leapt to his feet, forgetting about his own safety, his gun pointed at the intruder. The rest of the kids rose in unison, and those who had weapons trained them on the man's head and chest. They waited to see what their leader would do.

The man slowly approached. "Easy." He held out his revolver, but not in a threatening manner. Carefully, still keeping his eyes on the boy, he placed the gun on the ground. "I'm not here to harm you." His voice was low and gravelly, but there was an undercurrent of gentleness to it.

The boy narrowed his eyes, leaning forward into his weapon menacingly. He studied the man's lined, weathered face; he looked far older than he actually was. He searched the man's eyes for deception. He noticed the officer's name tag. It read: LTC CROZIER.

"Do you know why we are here? Our mission is to take down the ones who have been using you." The man scanned each of their stony faces. God, they all looked so young. They could easily be his own son's and daughter's age. Especially the boy with glasses; his face still had the softness of a child's, unlike the others, who were gangly and adolescent.

"You won't kill me, will you, son?" he continued when he received no response. "We'll take you out of here. Don't you want a normal life? Go to school? Live in a house and come and go as you please?" He tried not to show it, but the officer was frightened. He wasn't sure if his appeals would work, but he knew without a doubt that to approach them fighting was a quick way to get killed. He marveled inwardly at the boy's steady grip on his gun. There was no uncertainty, no fear.

"What about you guys?" He nodded toward a couple of boys in the back who had been showing signs of doubt. He noticed the thin, blonde girl standing next to the boy in glasses. "What about you, sweetheart? Don't you want out of here?" He turned back to the leader. "Do you want to decide for them?"

A blond boy shoved his way through the group, agitated. He seemed to want the leader to kill the man already. In the habit of remaining mute, the blond boy gesticulated wildly at the smaller boy, who only shook his head, ignoring him. His eyes never once left the older man's.

"You're not just a murderer, son. Come with us." The officer held out both hands in a gesture of peace.

The blond boy silently scoffed. The blonde girl glared fiercely at him.

All malevolence drained out of the leader's face as he stared the man down. The Lieutenant Colonel held his breath for what seemed like forever, waiting for the boy to decide whether to kill an unarmed man.

The boy with glasses brought his other hand up to grip his gun with purpose. He adjusted his aim and stance. The blond boy grinned.

The officer drew in a sharp breath. Had he failed?

The bullets clattered to the ground as the boy released them, disarming his weapon. The blond boy's face fell in dismay.

The leader let it fall out of his hand, and walked up to the man, joining his side. He looked back at his companions. Without hesitation, the blonde girl joined her friend, followed by two others. One by one, each kid dropped their weapons and crossed over.

The blond boy was the last to give in. He scowled and, shaking, he aimed his gun at the man. His companions formed a protective wall around his target. The blond boy hesitated in shooting any of his peers.

"I'm done," said the boy with glasses, in a strained voice unused to speaking. The blonde girl grasped his hand almost instinctually, and he grasped hers, neither of them looking at the other.

The officer had to hide his shock and relief. He had wondered if the kids could speak. He thanked whatever god that had deigned to protect his reckless ass that night.

A helicopter circled around to pick them up. The kids stood straight as arrows, emblazoned with bright white lights. They awaited an uncertain future.


End file.
